


Nine Pounds of Trouble (In a Five Pound Bag)

by yonderdarling



Series: The Doctor and the Doctor walk into a bar... [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Film Noir, Post-Time War, Time War Angst, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor drank. Esther smiled, looking like every bad decision he'd ever wanted to make. The rain hammered down outside, strangely silver and heavy-looking in the streetlights. That lock of hair came loose from her updo again, teasing.<br/>"You said that out loud," she said. "Every bad decision you ever wanted to make. Perhaps you should start making them."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Pounds of Trouble (In a Five Pound Bag)

**Author's Note:**

> "You know what would be great? The Master meeting the Ninth Doctor just after the Time War. Hey, you know what would be even better? Missy meeting the Ninth Doctor just after the Time War. And it's noir. And I'm going to make this story in black and white, because it's noir, and because I can put it on a black and white planet because this is space and I CAN."  
> Play some slow jazz or blues while reading, for atmosphere. Or something.

It was one of those planets where nothing good had come out of its dirt, and nothing good could come out of its sky.Oily rain fell down onto the dark city streets, splashing up in the gutters. Trash floated in the puddles. The streetlights shone, reflected back on the wet greasy ground. The planet limped around a piddly sun; a unique quirk of this planet's atmospheric makeup meant everything appeared in dull shades of grey, black and white.

The Doctor was finally tipsy, rolling his half-empty glass of liquor between his calloused fingers. The TARDIS was finally up and running again, the navigational systems limping along and confused without -

Without -

He wasn't drunk enough to sleep. Wasn't drunk enough to think about that. He ordered another glass, finished the one he had as it was delivered.

The TARDIS's life support had stayed online throughout, perhaps unfortunately. There was a ringing in his ears, from the artillery and howling and the strange shriek he'd heard the TARDIS make, the scream as Gallifrey had. Gone. Vanished. At his own hands.

Drink. Drink. There was a strange sense of emptiness in his mind without Gallifrey. He wanted to imagine he could hear white noise. Anything would have been better than the nothing on his mental radar. But not a blip. The war, loud for so long, had gone silent.

"Another," said the Doctor, and thanked the bartender this time.

The bartender took no notice, kept cleaning glasses between refilling half-empty drinks.

It had been almost a month, by his count, by the count of the TARDIS since he had brought the war to an end. The TARDIS was distressed. It was meant to run along Gallifrey's time, with the Eye of Harmony keeping everything running straight and smooth, keeping Gallifreyan timelines set and neat and ordered, but that wouldn't be a problem anymore, no other Gallifreyans to cross paths with, none. None, no more, he was the Doctor alone, the last Time Lord, the last Gallifreyan, singular, unattached, alone. The TARDIS was as traumatised as he was. She kept making noise, clanging, groaning, creaking whenever he tried to sleep, disliking the loss of his active consciousness, the only one like it now in the universe.

The Doctor didn't like it anymore than she did. He just wanted to sleep without her worrying. He couldn't. He couldn't let her worry. But he'd had enough.

This bar had a little room upstairs. Well, it had several. He'd be dragged up there when he passed out. The TARDIS would understand eventually. He just needed to sleep without the screaming.

The door to the bar opened, letting in the sound of the driving, greasy rain. Shut again with a bang. There was the sound of high heels on the wooden floor. The Doctor kept drinking, ignored the thunk-thunk-thunk of the darts game that had started up behind him.

He ran a hand over his face, then over the short hair of his head. He'd never had it this short before, could feel the breeze on his scalp, the back of his neck. He missed the days of floppy curls and his long scarf. Hadn't been able to look at those in the wardrobe; the Doctor had barely been able to look himself in the eye in his reflection.

The TARDIS had sung quietly to him as he'd left. He couldn't hear her now, even though he knew she was just outside in the alley out back. It smelt there. Surely she'd understand. He'd make it up to her - fly her over a time rift to give her a boost-up, change some of the dematerialisation coils. With what? He couldn't steal TARDIS parts from Gallifrey anymore, another cold new reality of this post-Gallifrey universe. He'd always avoided Gallifrey, but it had always been there. A lodestone, but a reliable one. He wondered vaguely if Sisyphus would miss the rock if it was taken away from him too.

There was a whistling noise by his right ear, and the Doctor twitched in his seat, his palms suddenly damp.A dart embedded itself in the wall behind the bar, quivering. The Doctor looked back at his drink as the bartender wrenched it out of the wood and handed it to the player with one of his tentacles. The smell of earth and dark red wine came over him, and then it was gone.

Thunk. The game resumed.

The Doctor sat. Drank. Looked at the far end of the bar, where the streetlight shone through, the venetian blinds making a silver and black pattern of bars on the tabletop and floor.

"My apologies," said a woman's voice, and the scent of red wine and copper was upon him again, a sense of vivid red on the grey planet. "Throw went wild. You know how it is. We all lose control sometimes. Things get out of hand."

She sat on the stool beside him, long legs in leather boots in the corner of the Doctor's vision.

"Don't tend to see humans on this planet, this far out," she continued.

"I'm not human," said the Doctor, and was surprised at the gruffness of his voice.

" _Humanoid_ ," the woman said, with a hint of annoyance. "Can't blame me for assuming. They _breed_. They're everywhere, these days. Can't get rid of them."

"I'm sure there's a way," said the Doctor faintly. "It's not like beings haven't tried."

The woman clicked her teeth, the sound sharp in the otherwise muffled bar. He could still hear ringing in his ears.

"Can I get you a drink? As a way of apology?" she asked.

The Doctor turned, looked her up and down. She looked like ten pounds of trouble in a five pound bag, dark hair in an updo, a half smile on her lips. She had cheekbones that would cut glass.

"Apology for what?"

"That was my dart that went rogue," she said, and signalled the bartender. "A brandy, a whiskey. Do you have any peanuts?"

"Shipment didn't come through. Judoon strikes," said the bartender, and the woman sighed, held up her hands good-naturedly. "We've got cashews."

The Doctor didn't want cashews. That was something he knew, definitely.

"I don't want cashews," she said. "Just the drinks then. Do you have a name, stranger?"

He shook his head.

"Do you want to know mine?"

"Not particularly," said the Doctor. "My name's - meaningless now. It was all a lie, in the end. I failed."

"Such early days _angst_ ," said the woman, a strange tone to her voice. "Excellent. Thank you." She slid the Doctor's whiskey over to him, the base of the glass scraping loudly on the cheap bartop, her fingers tapping against the edge. "You haven't a name. Do you have a planet?"

"What's it to you?"

"Making conversation. It's polite. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?" She waited. "Were you raised in a barn?"

"None of your business," said the Doctor, suddenly smelling hay, wishing she would go away. "Go away," he added, an afterthought. It didn't seem like it would work.

The woman spun on her stool, leant against the bar with one elbow. With a sigh, the Doctor moved, looked at her properly. Blinked. All she was really missing was an umbrella in that get up.

"I didn't know Mary Poppins drank brandy," he said finally.

"She does seem like an absinthe drinker," said the woman. "That bag was bigger on the inside. What really was in her spoon full of sugar?" She raised her eyebrows. "Why so glum, chum?"

"This planet. You seen this planet?" the Doctor muttered. "Why wouldn't I be glum? Chum."

"We're not chums, buddy-boy." She mumbled something else under her breath, picked up her drink. "Here's looking at you, kid."

They clinked their tumblers together.

"I had a friend who used to drink brandy," the Doctor said, watching her fingers around the glass. Long and pale in the dark bar. She wore an ugly black ring on one of them. "Dead now, of course."

"Must be terrible. Sorry to hear that. Was it expected?

"With him?" the Doctor said, and grimaced. "Well, yes. He tended to - come close to that, a lot. So do I. I don't seem to die though."

"More's the pity. Well you're here, I suppose. Same again," said the woman, to the bartender. "Your friend. Was he tall, dark and handsome, debonair?"

The Doctor could barely summon up an image of the Master. He settled on the last time he saw him, draped in Time Lord robes, mad with pain and power, after becoming that strangely phallic snake in San Francisco. "Not lately."

The woman chuckled at that. " _Yeah_. What can I call you?"

"Don't talk to me."

"Grumpy-pants," said the woman.

"Then what do I call you? Ray of unwanted sunshine, or pain in my arse?" the Doctor asked.

The woman pursed her lips, smiled.

"I'm - Esther. Esther Mists."

"I'm sure you are."

"I sure am."

"Nice brooch," the Doctor pointed. It was an ugly thing too, an ornate Victorian-styled cameo on her collar. He squinted. "Where'd you pick that up?"

Esther ran her tongue over her sharp teeth. "Friend gave it to me."

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah. Years ago. Haven't seen him since, if I'm honest. Still looking."

The Doctor nodded. Drank.

"Same again," he said to the bartender. "What happened to your friend?"

"Vanished," said Esther Mists. "I loved him, too. A lot. It's a shame."

"It must be nice," said the Doctor. "Do you think he's alive?"

"Oh, he's alive for now. He's a bloody cockroach, he is," she said. "I said I _loved_ him. Huh." She patted her jacket, below her right shoulder, checking there was something in the inside pocket. "I love him, the idiot."

"Does he love you?"

Esther looked at him, narrowed her eyes. They were a strange pale grey in this light spectrum, and the Doctor wondered what colour they were, when there was a proper spectrum of colour available, under a different star. She moved her head from side to side. "One of the last times I saw him, he kissed me in front of about six billion people and his old boss, so. Mixed messages." She tapped her pocket again, and the Doctor heard something clunking under the fabric. Something metal. "Very mixed."

"Do you have reason to be concerned about him?"

"Oh, well. Yes. This time," said Esther, still looking at him. She cupped her chin in her hand, rested her elbow on the bar, revealing a tantalising strip of her wrist. "This time, I have cause to be _quite_ concerned."

"If it helps," the Doctor said, thinking. "I usually kiss people I like. That's a thing, that most beings do. Take it from me. Unless they're French, they kiss everyone."

"Strangely enough, stranger, that does help. One would think he's avoiding me, but it's all about timing." Esther said. "Or he's just an idiot."

The Doctor felt something on his face twitch. "I think I know where you're coming from."

"Reckon you do," she said. "So, that's what's eating me. What's eating you?"

"Nothing's eating me."

"You're drinking alone in a terrible bar - sorry," she said, when the bartender made a noise of complaint. "Considering what he has to work with, an above-average bar with excellent service, albeit in a city on par with the worst of Chicago's backstreets in the 1920s, on a planet that has no useful resources to think of, even if the rain feels like oil when it lands on your neck and trickles down your collarbone. And then the acidic winds. And then this system - "

"What planet are you from?" the Doctor asked. Shook himself when he realised he was looking at her neck.

"Malcassario."

He decided to play dumb. "What system is that in?"

"Malcassario? The Malmooth Conglomeration."

"You don't look like you're a Malmooth. You're not from Malcassario."

"I'm adopted," she said. "Whole family died." She tipped her head, met the Doctor's eyes. "Whole species, if I'm honest, and my home planet, more or less. A small planet. Insignificant, yet they thought themselves so important."

The Doctor felt something in his gut roil. "What happened to your original planet?"

Esther Mists got a strange look on her face. "There was - a war. A strange war. I think, there was a war."

The timelines were already converging to erase the war's existence, at least from lower beings consciences. Strange. Through the calming haze of liquor, the Doctor thought he would have pegged Esther Mists as smarter than that. Then again, perhaps her species wasn't psychic. Humans weren't psychic, but they were smart - on an individual level.

"Some men, in red and gold. And these ugly, ugly things that looked like pepperpots." She shrugged. Drank. "Perhaps I will stoop to a cashew." The bartender offered her some. "Thank you, my dear fellow." She sucked the salt off her finger. "Hm. Not terrible."

The Doctor felt something strange in his chest. Another one of the countless billion victims of the time war, and the Time Lords would never be held accountable because - because -

"I was on Malcassario when my home planet was destroyed. They took me in." Esther propped her chin in her hands. Sighed headily, her chest heaving. "And of course, I was exiled from Malcassario for activities they found distasteful."

"I'm sorry for your planet."

Esther studied his expression, and he felt the guilt rising, rising, burning a hole of sobriety in the wonderful haze of alcohol. She had the sharp eyebrows and cheekbones of Morticia Addams, and for various reasons that woman had always terrified him. Esther gave him a soft smile, and he relaxed suddenly.

"It wasn't your doing," she said, sighed again. "Really, it was no one's _fault_. What kind of monster could bring themselves to destroy a whole planet? Think of the history, think of the animals - think of the _children_. My dear, who could bring themselves to do such a thing?"

She drank deeply, and the Doctor watched the line of her throat. Let himself focus on that, only on that. A lock of hair came loose from her updo, vivid black against the paleness of her neck. Idly, Esther reached up, pinned her hair back again. The Doctor took a long drink. Didn't think of the history, the animals, the children. He couldn't think of the children. The Doctor looked at her brooch again, shook himself. It was nothing.

"Gone - all the rocks and dust and concrete and buildings. Before its time," he said. "The good and the bad gone."

"It was a beautiful planet, all things considered," Esther said softly. "Daleks. That's what they were called," she added. "Those things in the pepperpots. That was what did it."

"The Daleks are gone now," the Doctor said, and Esther laughed bitterly.

"How can the Daleks be gone?" she asked, a hard edge to her voice. "The Daleks are - always and forever."

"Oh, believe me." The Doctor said, and felt that strange rush of vindictive pride swelling in his chest. Hoped that it would be enough to blot out the hole that is Gallifrey's absence. And everything else he had done. "All gone. Fantastic, isn't it?" He heard the sound of his own voice, didn't like it. Continued. "Knowing the universe is safe from their scum."

Esther scoffed, smacked him in the arm. "How can they be gone? What kind of man are you, so definite the scourge of the universe is all dead and burnt up?"

"I am - a special one."

"You'll understand if I doubt you," she said. "How immodest of you claim such knowledge. What planet _are_ you from, stranger?"

"Nowhere special."

"Planet of the Ears?"

"Now," the Doctor rotated to face Esther, who smiled seductively. " _Now_ , there's an attitude."

"What are you going to do?" she met his gaze. "Spank me?"

"Buy me another drink first," said the Doctor, and Esther signalled the bartender. "I'm from. I'm from Earth."

Esther made a game-show buzzer noise. "Wrong answer, try again. You said you weren't human and there's not nearly enough oxygen in this atmosphere for an earthling to survive without a mask and pack."

He hadn't been to Earth since Gallifrey. He hadn't - been anywhere, really. He suddenly wanted to go back on the TARDIS, wanted the dark claustrophobia, her dark singing in the corridors. Esther caught his eye.

"You're quite - well travelled," said the Doctor. "Did the Mamooths set you up with some kind of time-transporter?"

"It's crude," she said, patting her pocket. "No, but it wasn't the Mamooths. It was. Hm. The Shadow Proclamation, why not."

"Who are the Shadow Proclamation?"

"Who are the Shadow Proclamation?" Esther placed her hand on her chest, presumably where her species' heart was. "You don't know the Shadow Proclamation? My word, perhaps you are from Earth."

"Skoranschant," said the Doctor.

"Bless you."

"I'm from there, one of the outer reaches."

"Never been," said Esther carefully, sipping her drink. "Go on, drink up. It's good for you. That said, I heard Skoranschant was destroyed, actually. No one knows where it went, or what happened to the people. The Daleks are terrifying genocidaires. Or, were, if you're so sure that they are dead and gone."

The Daleks again. No, Skoranschant was closer to Kasterborous - there was every chance that the Time Lords had accidentally destroyed the planet in their crossfire. Or worse.

"Try, try, try again," Esther said quietly."What planet are you from, stranger?"

"My planet didn't have a name in this language," said the Doctor. "But - it doesn't matter. My planet's gone too." His voice cracked, and he was shocked, too shocked at that tiny fact to cry, speak, move on. "Gone away. Destroyed."

Esther reached over, rubbed the heel of her hand in circles on his back. She massaged the nape of his neck with her warm, soft fingers. He wanted to hate it. There was a reason the Time Lords wore collars, and it wasn't for the aesthetic value. Her nails were sharp and pricked at his skin. His spine tingled. He imagined the warmth from her fingers, the electricity in her touch, delving down into his skin, into the ragged gaps between his cells and atoms.

"You - " he began, and Esther's fingers moved up into his hair and she made a shushing noise. He let his head hang, stared into the dark liquid in his glass. "How many of these have I had?"

"Apparently not enough," said Esther, sliding her own glass over. There was a tiny trace of lipstick on the rim. He imagined the colour, if they were in a proper spectrum of light. Probably dark red. She seemed like a dark red kind of person.

The Doctor drank. Esther smiled, looking like every bad decision he ever wanted to make. The rain hammered down outside, strangely silver and heavy-looking in the streetlights. That lock of hair came loose from her updo again, teasing.

"You said that out loud," she said. "Every bad decision you ever wanted to make. Perhaps you should start making them."

"Have we met before, Esther Mists?" the Doctor asked quietly. He reached over, carefully tucked Esther's hair behind her ear. It was smooth and dark and silky against his fingers. It was soft. Nothing had been soft in his life, not for a long time. "You seem familiar."

Esther picked up her glass, pressed it into his free hand. Their fingers brushed. "Not in this lifetime," she said. "It can't have been long, since your planet went away. Was it the Daleks?"

"The Daleks? The Daleks?" the Doctor asked. Realised he could pretend. "The Daleks."

"I'm sure," said Esther, sarcastic.

"It wasn't the Daleks."

"I'm sure," she said, her tone different. It was gentle. "At the end of the day, it couldn't be one person's fault."

The Doctor put her empty glass down. When had he finished her drink? It clunked heavily against the bar. Esther crossed her legs, her skirt rustling. He ound himself looking at his hands.

"It's been a month. But. I suppose - I suppose -I'm the last of my race, too - " is what the Doctor wanted to say. He only gets as far "It's been a month - "

"Fantastic," Esther said darkly, leant forward and kissed him, her mouth open and warm and biting. She licked into his mouth, tasting like copper and all that brandy, and his vision went black.

The Doctor heard Esther gasp, try to pull back, her movements limited.

The bartender slammed a tentacle down on the bar. Esther held up a hand.

"It's fine," she said. "It's fine. Soldier. _Doctor_."

The Doctor came back to himself, saw his hands were tight on her neck. His hands were _around_ her neck. Strangling position, his thumb over her windpipe. But there was something wrong under his fingers, the blood in her veins, flickering too fast, too fast for anyone with a uni-cardiovascular system.

Esther grabbed his wrists, squeezed them until his bones creaked. Stared at him straight in the eye. The bartender moved on slowly.

"I'm sorry," he said, but he's wasn't feeling apologetic. The woman smiled at him, white fangs against her dark lips. "I'm not sorry."

She shifted in her seat, moved until their knees were pressed together. Touched her neck. The Doctor swallowed, his throat dry. Esther ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth again.

"No noticing my pulse now, my old friend," she whispered, and released his wrists. "This is all alien to you. I'm not here to hurt you."

He had his suspicions, but dared not voice them aloud.

"Why are you here?" the Doctor asked.

"I worry about you, stranger," she said. "I care about you. I'm looking for _you_."

"Here I am, what's left of me."

Esther clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes, disappointed. She slid off her stool gracefully. Smoothed her hair back.

"It's just not you I'm after, stranger," she said. Started walking away, a well-cut silhouette against the rest of the bar, the silver light outside. "Looking for something in particular."

"What about just for tonight," the Doctor said, trying not to sound desperate. The rain outside started to come down harder, drumming on the roof. Distantly, thunder rumbled. "Just tonight," he called.

Esther paused. Turned. Looked at him; walked back over.

She took his hand. Led him. They went upstairs. One of the little rooms was empty.

 

 *** * ***  

 

Esther crowded him against the door, kissed him again, and the Doctor kissed her back for the first time, relearning the motions. The Doctor moved down her throat, breathing in her smell, the smell of another being. He bit her neck, and she shuddered with pleasure. He let go, leant back and studied the indents of his teeth in her white skin. Traced them with a fingertip. 

They paused for a moment, and then she shifted, peeling off her well-tailored coat. There was a clunk, and Esther swore. Leant down and grabbed whatever had fallen out of her pocket off the rag-rug. It was a shiny disc, probably gold, about the size of his palm. The Doctor blinked, and there was a flash of familiarity and nausea and recognition -

She jammed the disc in the pocket, dropped the jacket on the floor. Quickly crossed the room and sat on the bed, tilted her head at him, legs crossed. She uncrossed them slowly. Raised her eyebrows.

"Now, to business," she said, and the Doctor laughed, surprising himself.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Oh, something I'm holding for that idiot friend of mine," she said. "He'd lose his own head if it wasn't screwed on. Come on. Get your pants off."

There was fumbling and more kissing, and she was wearing a corset, a Victorian-styled corset, and that should have distracted him, raised a red flag, but there was more kissing and kissing and she kissed him everywhere, from his fingertips to the dimples at the base of his spine, the hollow of his throat, the (generous) curves of his ears. He didn't feel like this kind of gentleness, though, and she seemed to sense what he was thinking, and shoved him onto his back.

Esther kept kissing him, biting at his lips. The Doctor trailed his lips down her neck again, breathed her in. Paused at her jugular.

"Your pulse is so - "

Her fingers pressed against his temple, and he blinked. Esther caught his mouth again.

"Don't think," she said, breath ghosting over his lips. "Touch me."

 

It was rough, which he appreciated, the animal kind of sex he and some of the other troops would occasionally have during the war. The kind that was an excuse to be close to another body, another being, amongst all the screaming and dying and time rending itself apart.

She was all soft curves with sharp teeth and nails, biting him almost as much as she kissed him. She touched his skin, all over, the places where he should have scars and bruises and burns and it had gone smooth again with this new body.

Afterwards, the storm raging outside, Esther lay next to him, rubbing circles on his chest until he fell asleep. She hummed to him, something that started off as Ella Fitzgerald and ended up trailing into something that sounded, to his ears, like an ancient song of Gallifrey.

He slept.

 

*** * ***

 

There was the loud crackle of thunder, and the Doctor started awake. Forgot where he was for a second, blinked wildly, his eyes wondering where the colour had gone. Remembered. He settled down, hearts pounding. Studied the light from the streetlamps outside as it threw the shadows of the blinds on his bare chest, Esther's bare back as she slept. Her hair spilled down her back and over the linen, black like ink against the greys and whites. She stirred. Mumbled something.

"I killed them," the Doctor murmured, to the falling rain, once he knew the woman was awake. Said it louder. "I killed them all."

Esther rolled over, blinked up at him, her lipstick smeared across her mouth. Her hair tumbled around her face and shoulders and she pushed it back. Reached up and cupped his face. The Doctor tangled his fingers in her hair. Tugged lightly on the dark locks.

"Yes," she said, without a hint of fear, and grinned, her pale eyes gleaming. "Yes, you did, you wonderful boy. _Almost_ all of them."

"Who are you?" the Doctor whispered.

Esther kissed his palm, her lips tickling his skin. "You know who I am. No - shh, shh. Don't, or I'll have to do something naughty and clever with your memories."

"I won't remember this anyway."

Esther kissed his hand again, closed his fingers over his palm.

"Go back to sleep," she said. Ran her lips over his knuckles. "Day thirty-two awaits."

"I don't want to sleep. I can hear them."

"One day," she said, pulling the blankets up around them. "One day, you won't regret what you've done. Go to sleep, Doctor."

"How do you know my name?"

She kissed him on the forehead. Stroked his hair.

"Sleep, my dear," she said, and he did. 

The Doctor slept, long and black and restful. Esther was gone when he woke. He didn't expect anything different.

 

 

*** * ***

 

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I like film noir, not written noir. If it's not clear, the disc Missy has in her pocket is the Twelfth Doctor's confession dial, and this is during her pre-season nine search for him. In the grand tradition of the Master, "Esther Mists" is an anagram for "the Mistress."  
> Massive shoutout to Kiara for giving me a hand on this one!  
> Thanks for reading and feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
